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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683414">Five Flights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fever_of_Stingrays/pseuds/Fever_of_Stingrays'>Fever_of_Stingrays</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Flight Attendant (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Times, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Praise Kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:46:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fever_of_Stingrays/pseuds/Fever_of_Stingrays</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda likes to show up on Cassie's flights. Sometimes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cassie Bowden/Miranda Croft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. JFK — CDG</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Miranda shows up on one of her flights, Cassie is so startled that she barely avoids tripping over her feet in the aisle. Miranda doesn’t look up from her book.</p><p>“Can I get you anything to drink?” Cassie asks, even and friendly, perfectly professional.</p><p>“Scotch, thanks.” Miranda says in her nicest voice, which is unsurprisingly, almost identical to her I-can-kill-you-in-ten-different-ways voice.</p><p>Cassie bites back a laugh when she sees <em>The Kill Artist</em> splashed across the cover in Miranda’s hands. </p><p>“Any good?” she asks, pouring a generous, not at all regulation sized splash of scotch. She has been sober for 36 days, and she is trying to ignore how good the booze smells, she needs the distraction.</p><p>“Not very realistic,” Miranda says, watching Cassie sets her drink down.</p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she says breezily.</p><p>The other woman’s mouth kind of curves into something like a smile, and Cassie moves to the next passenger, feeling weirdly flattered and victorious.</p><p>Paris has always been one of her favorite cities, though it’s kind of embarrassing to admit. Seoul is cooler, Rome is classier, but Paris is <em>Paris</em> for fucks sake; Cassie is from Kentucky and Paris is kind of the whole ball game when it comes to cities for country girls to daydream about. She wonders what Miranda is doing here, knowing it’s probably something...unpleasant, to say the least. Cassie glances around the airport as she and Shane leave, feeling like an idiot, looking for a familiar black trench coat and bright blue eyes. Of course Miranda is not waiting around for her, she probably got on Cassie’s flight just to fuck with her, keep her on her toes. She has no idea how Miranda managed to get off the plane without her noticing, like, seriously, can she bend space and time?</p><p>Cassie looks around hopefully as she and Shane walk out of the airport— which is embarrassing, because she doesn’t like, <em>know</em> Miranda, she knows her as much as she can know a woman who stalked her and almost killed her, then tried to save her life. It doesn't matter, Miranda is gone, and she feels unreasonably disappointed. </p><p>“Helloooo! Ready for dinner?” Shane is waving at her and she snaps back to attention, plastering a grin on her face.</p><p>“Dinner! Yes, I’m starving, let’s go.”</p><p>It is nice, easy in a way that she forgot things like dinner could be without drinking, when people aren’t sick of dealing with her. She is craning her neck around for the fifth or sixth time when Shane asks her who she keeps looking for. Cassie blushes, realizing she’s hoping to see Miranda at the bar or tucked away at a table in the corner. She tries to let it go and just, like, be present in the moment or whatever, but she’s not as good at forgetting things as she used to be.</p><p>Forgetting used to be Cassie’s best defense, a guaranteed respite from her fuck ups. It’s hard to do sober, because it’s something she never knew how to do naturally. Without a few drinks in her, everything is so <em>sharp</em> and clear, her thoughts like bright lines that vibrate in her head constantly. Still, most days it feels good to be working towards something better—even if, yes, fine, there is a tiny part of her that misses all of the intrigue and the running and the woman who held a gun to her head that one time.</p><p>Shane flirts outrageously with the waiter, Cassie doesn’t drink, they laugh and bitch about work, both studiously avoid talking about Meghan and her mysterious disappearance. She ignores the wine shop next door when Shane and his waiter wave goodbye and she goes back to the hotel, alone.</p><p>She is thinking through her plans for the night as she taps her card against her door, because it helps to have her time structured, no moments to let herself think about drifting down to the hotel bar or—<em>Jesus fucking Christ</em> someone is on her bed.</p><p>“Seriously, how are you still alive?” Miranda says wryly from Cassie’s bed, ankles elegantly crossed.</p><p>“Fucking <em>hell</em> Miranda, are you trying to give me a heart attack, what the <em>fuck</em>.” Cassie leans against the dresser, head in her hands, waiting for her heart to stop racing. Maybe by then she will figure out what the hell Miranda is doing here.</p><p>“I was going to track you down if I finished this before you got back,” Miranda says, lifting her book. “Thought you might be at a bar but...” She trails off, looking intently at Cassie. “You're sober.” It’s not a question; Miranda doesn’t miss anything. Cassie’s eyes aren’t glassy, her speech is clear, she isn’t wobbling on her feet.</p><p>“I am sober.” Cassie confirms shortly, fighting the urge to confess how much she wants a drink, how happy she is to not be alone right now. “What’s up, what do you need?”</p><p>It might be the first time she has seen Miranda look surprised. Well, maybe not the <em>first</em> time, the first time was probably when she realized Cassie wasn’t an assassin pretending to be a flight attendant. Miranda had a lot to say then—sure, most of it was swearing— but still, it was an endless, very colorful tirade. Right now it’s like Miranda doesn’t know what to say at all.</p><p>“I don’t need anything?” Miranda says, after a long moment. She neatly marks her page and sets down her book. “We’re friends.”</p><p>Cassie cocks her head. “We are?”</p><p>There is literally nothing in their history that would point to friendship—like, sure, Miranda bailed her out of jail that time, but if you bail someone out and then <em>immediately</em> hold a gun to their head? That is not, like, a story you tell over dinner.</p><p>Miranda’s sharp features shift, she looks frustrated. She lifts her hand, gestures at the two of them, the hotel room. “I’m here.”</p><p>Cassie blinks, once, twice, then realizes Miranda isn’t kidding. She tries to fight the giggle that bubbles up and Miranda is still staring at her, deadly serious, and she can’t help it, she doubles over, laughing so hard she has to wipe tears from her eyes.</p><p>“Move over will you?” she says, flopping next to Miranda on the bed, still chuckling under her breath.</p><p>Miranda’s eyes narrow. “Are you laughing at me?”</p><p>“Of course I’m laughing at you, who else would I be laughing at?” Cassie feels her stiffen and places a consoling hand on her arm. “Sorry, it’s just...is this what you think friendship is? Showing up on my flight after disappearing with Alex’s money and then breaking into my hotel room?”</p><p>“I didn’t break in; I used a <em>key</em>. Christ. I’m not a barbarian.” Miranda scoffs.</p><p>“Okay, but, you know that’s not how it works?”</p><p>“Oh, aye, you’re the friendship expert?”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Cassie says, but there’s no venom in it.</p><p>“I don’t have a lot of friends.” Miranda mutters, crossing her arms. “Still living ones, anyway.”</p><p>Cassie pillows her head on her arms and yawns, choosing to ignore the possible threat. “Do you want lessons?”</p><p>“<em>Friendship lessons</em>?” It’s impressive, really, the amount of unbridled disdain that Miranda manages to inject into two words.</p><p>“Yeah, I think you need them. Badly.”</p><p>“I could just leave,” Miranda says, indignant.</p><p>Cassie grabs Miranda’s sleeve. “It’s good to see you.”</p><p>Honestly, this conversation is the most fun Cassie has had in a while. She likes talking to Miranda, she likes how her brain works, she likes how weird and funny she is, she just...likes her.</p><p>Miranda blows out an exasperated breath, but doesn’t move. They’re quiet for a while, then Miranda mutters “Right. What’s the first lesson then?”</p><p>Cassie is fighting to keep her eyes open, but she smiles around another yawn. “What have you learned tonight?”</p><p>“I should...text you? Before I break in?” Miranda sounds like she’s guessing. It’s kind of sweet. </p><p>The thing is, Cassie has thought about Miranda a lot over the last few weeks, she is one of the way too bright, constant thoughts that clatter around Cassie’s newly sober brain for reasons she is absolutely not ready to deal with without a drink. Friendship is good, friendship easier, friendship she can handle.</p><p>“A text before you break and enter.” Cassie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Miranda smells like woods after the rain. “That’s a good start.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. JFK —TXL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The second time Miranda shows up on one of Cassie’s flights, they’ve planned it. Cassie got a text from an unfamiliar number when the roster was released, just a list of three flights she’d be on in the next month— Miranda’s way of letting her pick. She chooses JFK-TXL, because Berlin feels like Miranda, sleek and architectural, cool and intimidating. </p><p>Cassie is tempted—just for a second—to figure out how Miranda knows when the airline’s roster gets released, but it doesn’t seem worth the trouble. She is good at getting information, knowing how she does it isn’t really the point. </p><p>Not to mention it’s probably illegal. </p><p>Like, <em> definitely </em> illegal. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>They are watching TV on a king sized bed in Berlin, Cassie in a fluffy hotel robe, Miranda in her usual uniform: black blouse, black pants. Her trench (also black) is folded neatly over the chair where her (black) tote rests, boots (yep, also black) tucked underneath. Cassie has managed to offend Miranda by calling her latest paperback thriller a “beach book,” and Miranda looks at her, affronted. </p><p>“I would never read a mystery on the beach.”</p><p>“Isn’t that what they’re for?” Cassie yawns. </p><p>In Paris, she had woken up alone, a note on her pillow.<em> xM. </em></p><p>Now, Miranda tosses the book in question on the bed between them. “No. You don’t read a thriller on the beach. You read romances on the beach, or women’s fiction.” </p><p>“Women’s fiction?” Cassie says skeptically. </p><p>“Chick Lit. Whatever misogynistic phrase they come up with.” Miranda waves a hand dismissively. Her gestures are economical—not a moment of wasted movement.</p><p>Cassie shakes her head, conceding the point. “Fine, so when do you read...I don’t know, great works of literature?” </p><p>“<em>Crime and Punishment</em>, for example?” </p><p>Miranda doesn’t really smile, she kind of presses her lips together and her eyes go from a flinty, hard blue to something a little warmer— strong sun on a winter morning. </p><p>Cassie rolls her eyes. “Yes, like <em> Crime and Punishment </em>or whatever.” She picks up the room service menu, waves it in front of Miranda’s face. “Can we order something? I am starrrrrving.” </p><p>“Great works of literature are for the fall. And you don’t have to ask me for permission to eat.” Miranda says, flipping through channels. </p><p>Cassie rolls her eyes again. Miranda is impossible to ruffle, she is unbothered when Cassie acts like a brat, which makes her want to do it more, just to get a rise out of her. It’s embarrassing, the way she can’t help herself, but sometimes she gets the feeling that Miranda likes it too because it feels kind of... charged? Like something is simmering between them, not quite rising to a boil.</p><p>Cassie doesn’t like thinking about it, she <em>can’t</em> think about shit like this without drinking, she’s not <em>there yet</em>, that’s what her sponsor would say. She’s working on her whole panicking and downing shots and running away thing, but it’s a slow process, she’s only been sober for four months. There is a whole list of things that she’s not ready to deal with, and whatever she feels about Miranda is high on that list. </p><p>Like, near the top.</p><p><em>Very </em> near the top.  </p><p>“I am not asking you for permission to <em> eat </em>, I am asking if you’re cool covering it, or if you want me to like, I don’t know, pay you back or something. Venmo you. Whatever.” </p><p>Miranda tried to put her “friends don't break and enter” lesson into practice this time by getting her own suite. <em> Tried </em> is the key word there, because technically, she <em> did </em>break into Cassie’s room to leave her a note and a room key, hey, change is a process.</p><p>Plus, the upgrade is cool as hell—the suite is massive, with a living area and an outrageous freestanding bathtub that Cassie could spend all night in. Her flight back isn’t until later tomorrow, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time to do the room justice. </p><p>The pressed-lip-almost-smile resurfaces. “I have quite a lot of money, you know.” </p><p>“What do you even <em> do </em> with 200 million dollars? Buy more boring shirts?” Cassie asks, rolling onto her stomach to better peruse the menu. </p><p>Not drinking makes her so fucking hungry all the time, like there is a yawning, endless pit in the bottom of her stomach. Everyone in AA keeps warning her not to replace one addiction with another, but literally all of them are constantly lighting one cigarette with another, plumes of smoke billowing from their mouths, so really, what do they know? </p><p>Miranda smirks. “And boring pants.”  </p><p>Cassie snorts, shaking her head in disappointment. “That’s all? Buying murder outfits? Isn’t there like, something fun you want? You could...I don’t know, buy a boat! Boats are good, boats are <em> fun</em>.” </p><p>“Boats are a terrible investment—the upkeep alone.” Miranda squints at her. “Why do you care what I do with it?” </p><p>“Aside from the fact that I lead you right to it and have been <em> very </em>cool about you hoarding it all like some kind of...dragon lady? This is what friends do. We bitch about our jobs and how little money we make and the shitty men we’re dating.” </p><p>“I’m not dating any ‘shitty men’.” The last words are delivered dryly in a pitch perfect imitation of Cassie’s accent. </p><p>“Shitty women then.” Cassie waggles her eyebrows. She can imagine Miranda dating anyone, inasmuch as she can imagine Miranda dating at all, which—to be clear— she absolutely cannot. What would she say she does for work?</p><p>“None of those at the moment either, I’m afraid.” Miranda leans her head down near Cassie’s and points at the menu. “Burger. Rare.” </p><p>The way Miranda purrs her order in Cassie’s ear, all low and throaty, makes the hairs on her neck stand up. </p><p>She is probably imagining things, because that's what Cassie does when she gets panicky, but she know she is not imagining how flushed her neck is or how close Miranda is, or that charged feeling hovering between them, and what she <em> wants </em> is vodka, ideally very, very cold vodka but anything would do, whiskey, a corner store six pack, and that little pang of wanting spins out into a full fledged craving. The intensity of it makes Cassie clench the menu hard enough that the laminated page bites into the soft skin of her palms and she sucks in a breath, feeling Miranda tense beside her as she notices Cassie’s breathing change. </p><p>Her words get caught in her throat when she goes to say she’s fine, so she puts her head down between her arms, telling herself to calm down, fighting the urge to get up and pace, or better yet, get up and run to the bar downstairs.  </p><p>It doesn’t help, it makes her feel like she is suffocating, the relaxing breath she means to take ends up sharp and desperate. Her heart is hammering so fast in her chest it feels like it’s about to explode, because that’s probably what would happen if your heart kept beating too fast, right? </p><p>
  <em> Boom. Splat.  </em>
</p><p>Bye bye Cassie. Her turn to be found dead in a hotel room. </p><p>That morbid thought makes her laugh, not her normal laugh, a harsh guttural wheeze that she knows sounds very fucked up.</p><p>“Cassie.” Miranda sounds concerned now. “Sit up for me, alright?”</p><p>She does not, because she is having a full on <em>seeyoulaterbye </em>panic attack and Miranda sounds very far away and also underwater. </p><p>Cassie knows she is in Berlin, not Bangkok, she is with Miranda, not Alex, Miranda is <em> real, </em> not a hallucination. It’s good that she can remember these things, that she can panic without spinning out into a hallucination, but she’s still having a hard time connecting the words Miranda is saying with meaning. </p><p>“I need you to take a deep breath, can you do that?” </p><p>Cassie’s eyes are glassy, breath shallow and uneven.</p><p>Miranda swears and readjusts, pulling Cassie up against her chest, placing a gentle hand on her abdomen. “Can you feel my hand?” </p><p>Her lips are close to Cassie’s ear and her voice kind of breaks through the underwater static in her head. </p><p>“Yes.” Cassie’s mouth is dry and her voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s something. </p><p>“That’s good, just breathe now, alright? Take a deep breath, feel my hand moving with you— you feel that?” Dimly, Cassie notices Miranda’s accent is stronger, like she’s worried: <em> Yeh feel tha? </em></p><p>“Mmhmm.” Cassie concentrates on the sensations around her. Miranda’s hand on her stomach, but also: how strong her arms feel, her woods after rain smell. She doesn’t know how long it takes—more than ten minutes, less than an hour?—but finally her heart stops racing and her vision isn’t narrowed down to tiny pinpricks. Miranda takes her palm from Cassie’s abdomen and presses two fingers to her neck, brisk and efficient, nodding as she feels Cassie’s pulse slowing to something approaching normal.  </p><p>“That’s better. Can you drink this?” She hands Cassie a glass and doesn’t let go until she’s sure it won’t slide to the floor. </p><p>Cassie nods and drinks, swishes the water between her teeth, feeling the tissues in her mouth re-hydrate. </p><p>Miranda plucks the empty glass from her when she is done and sets it on the nightstand. “Can you move?” </p><p>Yes and no. </p><p>Yes, Cassie would like to forget this happened, because she has found she prefers not being a panicky, barely holding it together disaster. No, she would not like to move, and <em> no</em>, she would not like to think about why. </p><p>“I’m okay.” Cassie hedges. </p><p>Miraculously, Miranda stays put, shifting a little so she can pick up the phone. She murmurs some intelligible words, then hangs up and gently runs her hand down Cassie’s hair. The simple intimacy of it makes Cassie’s chest feel tight. “Food should be up in a bit.”  </p><p>“Not hungry.” </p><p>“Aye, that’ll be the adrenaline, but you need some food in your system, eh?” Miranda cards her fingers through Cassie’s hair again, and she is too sleepy to fight the little whimper of pleasure that escapes her. “You can sleep until the food gets here, if you want.” </p><p>She does. </p>
<hr/><p>The bedroom is washed in the grey light of early morning and the bed, aside from Cassie, is empty. No Miranda, no note. She vaguely remembers Miranda making her eat and drink more water before she passed out again.  </p><p>Her heart drops—like, <em>drops, </em>it feels like it is cartoonishly plummeting to the ground, falling fast and hard—but she brushes it aside. She is not dwelling on last night, she just needs some coffee, that's all, she is not thinking about Miranda, nope, Cassie is pushing all of that way, way, <em> way </em> down.</p><p>The robe she was wearing has been neatly folded and placed next to her on the bed. She shrugs it on and stretches, feeling soreness in her shoulders, a delightful souvenir from her panic attack. She forces herself out of bed and into the living room in search of coffee, not letting herself think about when Miranda left or why she didn’t leave a note or if she has written off whatever their friendship is entirely.</p><p>Cassie smells coffee and pauses, confused, then realizes Miranda is reading the paper on the couch. </p><p>“You’re still here.” </p><p>Miranda looks at her like she is an idiot. “I didn’t think you would appreciate waking up alone after last night.” </p><p>“Oh.” She isn’t wrong, Cassie would have berated herself up for being a fucked up loser for at least a month. “That was nice of you.” She wanders over to the couch, yawning. </p><p>“They’re worse now that you aren’t drinking, aren’t they?” Miranda sets her paper down and pours Cassie a cup of coffee, looking at her intently. “The panic attacks.”</p><p>“Um, I guess? I don’t know; I haven’t really noticed.” Cassie says with poorly feigned nonchalance. </p><p>They are not worse— they are fucking <em> brutal, </em> they are impossible and constant, especially at night. She is managing them, or trying to.</p><p>Miranda’s eyes narrow. “Well, that sounds like a total load of bullshit, but if you don’t want to talk to me about it, you don’t have to.” She shakes her watch down her wrist and sighs. “I’ve got to go, are you good?” </p><p>Cassie chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m fine.” </p><p>“Right.” Miranda drawls in a <em> lie to me if you want to  </em> tone. She pauses like she wants to say something, but instead shakes her head and stands up. She is already dressed, another impeccable all black outfit that looks made for lurking in alleyways with a knife <em> . </em>She shrugs into her trench and tosses the room service menu to Cassie. “Order yourself some food, eh?” </p><p>“In a bit,” Cassie pouts, annoyed. “I’m not very hungry.”  </p><p>She blinks and Miranda’s hand is under her chin, tilting her face up, forcing Cassie to look into her eyes. “I wasn’t asking,” she says coolly. “You don’t want me to punish you, do you Cassandra?” </p><p>It turns out Miranda does smile, and it’s sharp and dangerous and just a little bit cruel. </p><p>“I—” Every thought has flown <em> directly </em> out of Cassie’s head, all she can think about is the gentle pressure of Miranda’s fingers on her face. “Yep. Got it. Food. Me, getting food. Will do. Roger that.” </p><p>“Good girl.” Miranda murmurs, then drops her hand and slips out of the room like a shadow, leaving Cassie on the couch shocked and...<em> turned on</em>?</p><p>No, that’s...no, this is just...leftover panic attack shit— because it’s not like she is thinking about the way Miranda’s voice curled around the words “good girl,” or about how much she liked hearing it, she is not thinking about that smile and she is certainly not thinking about how badly she wants to see it again, nope, Cassie is not thinking any of those things; Cassie is drinking her coffee and then she is taking a shower and going to work, she is not going to think about Miranda and waste her time getting all twisted in knots about...whatever that was, because it was <em> nothing </em>, it was just a weird moment with her scary friend who kills people sometimes. </p><p>She nods to herself, resolved, then notices the room service menu next to her. </p><p>
  <em> You don’t want me to punish you, do you Cassandra? </em>
</p><p>She orders breakfast. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. LHR - JFK</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The third time, Cassie is the one who shows up on Miranda’s flight. She agreed to take Shane’s LHR-JFK because he wanted her LHR-CDG —apparently things are going well with the waiter. </p><p>“I thought you were in Paris tonight,” Miranda says, tapping a slim finger against the spine of another thriller. </p><p>The memory of Miranda’s hand on her chin resurfaces; it makes her palms sweat. </p><p>“I switched.” Cassie says, weirdly flattered Miranda bothered to remember her schedule. </p><p>She resists the urge to ask where Miranda is coming from, where she’s going, if she thinks about Cassie half as much as Cassie thinks about her. Not that she thinks about Miranda like, <em> all </em>the time okay? She is doing pretty well, all things considered. She got her six month chip two weeks ago, she found a therapist she likes most of the time, her panic attacks are getting better, work is fine. Cassie is doing like, amazingly well. Heroically well. </p><p>It’s just— sometimes— Cassie has these dreams. She's been waking up feeling feverish, heart racing, with a very specific, slightly muted Scottish accent rolling around her head.</p><p>But, whatever, seriously, this is nothing, this is a friendship that is a little weird because everything about Miranda is a little weird. It's not like it's a <em>crush</em>, she can't have a crush on a woman whose phone number she doesn’t even have, because Miranda changes phones like Cassie changes underwear: sure, not like, <em>every</em> day, but never twice in a row. </p><p>“Would you like to get dinner?” </p><p>Cassie comes out of her reverie and stops pouring water just in time to not dump it all over Miranda’s lap. A few dribbles make their way down the side of the glass. </p><p>“Dinner? You and I? Dinner? Like, in a restaurant? In public?” </p><p>The faint lines around Miranda’s mouth deepen in amusement. “Is that not something friends do?” </p><p>“No, they do, they definitely do, it’s just, I have plans with Ani? And her boyfriend? Max? Remember Ani?” </p><p>“The lawyer without a firm and the guy who got hit by a car, yes. Quite the crack team.” </p><p>Cassie flushes defensively. “You know, Max really helped us out and Ani <em>would</em> have figured something out eventually, if you hadn't been all 'let's disappear to Toronto' or whatever, everyone isn’t cut out for your—” </p><p>Miranda lifts her hand, looking around with her eyes narrowed.</p><p>Cassie gets her point. “Are you around during the rest of the week?” </p><p>“Not unless something goes wrong.” Miranda doesn’t elaborate, and Cassie knows better than to try to follow up. </p><p>“Well, okay. I gotta...you know,” she gestures around the cabin. </p><p>“Yep.” </p><p>Cassie starts to walk down the aisle to the next passenger, then something comes over her, she turns around and blurts: “Do you want to come? Tonight, I mean? It won’t be like, fancy or anything, we’re just hanging out. It could be good for you. It's the next step up for your friendship lessons” </p><p>Miranda looks surprised, but maybe… flattered? It's hard to tell, everything with her is so fucking hard to tell. “I can’t imagine Ani would be thrilled to see me.” </p><p>She is right, but whatever, these are three of the four people Cassie likes the most in the world, and there is no way it won’t be entertaining. “Probably not, but who cares. Ani is bringing Max, I can bring you, like a double date or whatever."</p><p>
  <em>Like a double date or whatever. <br/></em>
</p><p>Cassie has no idea what the hell possessed her to say that, and she knows her face is red because it feels like it is <em> surface of the sun </em> hot in this cabin but first class is always freezing, because rich people like to be cold so it cannot be as hot in there as it feels, but <em> she </em>is too warm, redness spreading from her face to her neck and the tips of her ears. She opens her mouth but hasn’t thought of anything to say—so she stands there with her mouth wide open like an actual idiot. </p><p>Miranda’s lips twitch, just the tiniest bit and Cassie realizes that she is <em> enjoying </em> this, she is having <em> fun </em>seeing Cassie all stammer-y and nervous and sweaty, because <em>of course</em> she is. "Well. This should be interesting. I'll meet you at yours. Eight."</p><p>Cassie manages to nod, then moves on to the next passenger.</p><p><em>Interesting</em>. Sure.</p><hr/><p>Ani is pissed when she realizes that the “friend” Cassie brought to dinner is Miranda, she looks a little nervous maybe? And well, considering what she knows about Miranda, it is like fair, and <em>slightly</em> warranted.</p><p>They managed to score a corner booth despite the fact that Cassie forgot to make a reservation and it is a packed Friday night. She has a feeling Miranda said something threatening to the host because he looked kind of green when Cassie got back from the bathroom, but he didn’t like, complain or anything, just led them straight back here and it <em> is </em>a great table. </p><p>“What the fuck, Cass?” Ani drops into the opposite side of the booth with Max behind her, grinning like her bitchiness is the most charming thing he’s ever heard. “Are you just like, bringing assassins to dinner now?”</p><p>Cassie winces. Miranda has been very clear that while her job might, from time to time, require killing, she is not an <em> assassin for hire </em> . She says it with enough disdain that it is clear the distinction is important to her, no matter how much it seems like splitting <em>super</em> fine hairs.</p><p>She ignores Ani and turns to Max, smiling brightly. "Max, Miranda; Miranda, Max."</p><p>"Awesome," he breathes, looking genuinely thrilled. "You uh...helped Cassie out a while back, yeah?"</p><p>“And ran off with all that fucking money,” Ani mutters, glaring. </p><p>Miranda leans back, meeting her glare with a rather....threatening smirk, until Ani winces and drops her eyes to the table. Miranda huffs out a sound that could be a laugh or scoff, then turns to Max. "That I did."</p><p>She doesn't specify if she is talking about helping Cassie avoid getting killed by a crazy cat murderer, or running off with two hundred million dollars. Probably both.</p><p>Amazingly enough, Max and Miranda hit it off immediately, talking about...coding or whatever, that kind of boring nerd shit. Cassie has blurry Bangkok memories of this Miranda—she’s all quick wit and dry jokes and raised eyebrows and it doesn't take her long to win Ani over too.</p><p>Cassie is glad that she gets to keep the other Miranda, the one with all her opinions about books and what seasons they should be read in to herself. She likes knowing there is a version of her only she gets to see: a little gentler, protective. Caring.</p><p>Not like, <em>nice</em>, a nice person probably wouldn’t have a very big, very scary knife hidden on her, but Miranda looked at Cassie like she was speaking another language when she suggested that maybe, just maybe!— she didn’t need to go to dinner armed. She’s had no reason to reach for it...though— being threatened with a very big, very scary knife <em> would </em>explain why the host looked so terrified before...but for the most part, Cassie is having a surprisingly normal, nice time with her friends and Miranda.</p><p>For the most part.</p><p>Because the thing is, Miranda’s arm is around Cassie. </p><p><em>Kind</em> of. </p><p>Barely touching her, just gently resting on the booth behind her back, and it probably doesn’t <em> mean </em> anything, there is absolutely no reason Cassie needs to read anything into it. </p><p>Except. </p><p>Staying still isn’t really Cassie’s thing, she is always in motion, gesturing with her hands and bouncing in her seat, but whenever she moves— like when she rests her foot on the seat and wraps her arms around her knee— Miranda does too, like it’s important that her arm stays curved protectively around Cassie.</p><p>Cassie has <em> almost </em> managed to convince herself that it’s nothing, then she fidgets and feels Miranda move too, settling her arm behind her, moving a little closer on the wide seat. Again, it's probably nothing, just a weird habit that people who definitely aren't assassins but <em>do</em> kill people pretty regularly do with their friends. Cassie forces herself to stay still, to stop thinking about it so much, glancing across the table at Ani, who is looking back at her, one eyebrow raised. She smirks a little, then jumps in and finishes the story that she insists Max is butchering.   </p><hr/><p>They’re waiting for cars on the sidewalk when Ani tugs her away from Max and Miranda—the two of them still going on about a "totally awesome" (Max) and "rather impressive, all things considered" (Miranda) hack from last month.</p><p>“You <em> like </em> her, don’t you?”  </p><p>Without thinking, Cassie glances over to Miranda. “What are you—? What? Of course I like her, we’re friends. I don’t, like <em> like </em> her, that’s…insane, is what that is.” She sounds hilariously unconvincing, even to herself. </p><p>“Oh my god, yes you do—Cass, you are <em> literally </em> staring at her right now <em> .”  </em></p><p>Cassie flushes and snaps her eyes back to Ani. “I am not, I am looking at <em> you</em>, my supposed best friend who has some really, <em> really </em> insane ideas about me liking—” </p><p>“A scary, hot murderer?” Ani finishes a little too gleefully for Cassie's liking. </p><p>“Can you like, keep it down, <em> please </em>?” Cassie begs. “Wait. You—you think Miranda is hot?” </p><p>“Babe!” Max waves at Ani. “Car is here.”  </p><p>“Coming! Cass, she’s obviously hot— if you are into that like, mean mommy domme thing—which I did <em> not </em>see for you, but you know what? I get it and I kind of love it.” Ani says, pulling her back down the street. She waves goodbye to Miranda and kisses Cassie on the cheek. “I think she likes you too."</p><p>Then she slides in the car behind Max, leaving Cassie standing stunned on the curb.  </p><p>“Fuck.” Miranda is leaning against the streetlight, frowning at her phone. “I have to go.”</p><p>“Oh. Right now?” Cassie says, Ani's words still rattling around her head.“Right, no, of course, you gotta go...do your thing.” </p><p>Miranda looks irritated, she mutters something under her breath then grabs Cassie’s hand and tugs her closer. “Sorry. Your friends are funny. Not always intentionally, but still. Funny.” </p><p>Cassie lets the dig slide because her attention is focused entirely on the surprising fact that Miranda’s strong, cool fingers are wrapped around hers. </p><p>
  <em> You like her, don’t you? </em>
</p><p>“Okay, well.” Cassie drops Miranda’s hand and takes a step back. “See ya when I see ya.” </p><p>“Aye.” Miranda gets that look on her face again, like she wants to say something, but instead she spins on her heel and disappears into the night.</p><p>
  <em> I think she likes you too. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. JFK - FCO</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fourth time Miranda appears on one of her flights, Cassie is drunk.</p><p>It's <em>fine</em>, she's like, fun drunk, she’s running the first class cabin like a goddamn circus… director?</p><p>…ringmaster?</p><p>Whatever. She can’t remember when she started drinking, she thinks it was at that mixer at Ani’s new firm that she dragged Cassie to because Max was visiting his parents and she’s pretty sure it was an accident— she picked up the wrong glass and took a sip expecting seltzer but—</p><p>
  <em> Ooohhh, hello vodka. </em>
</p><p>Sober Cassie would have remembered the conversation she had with Miranda on the flight, sober Cassie would have felt guilty or something equally boring, sober Cassie would not have convinced Miranda hit the bars with her in Rome, but sober Cassie honestly <em> sucks</em>, and sober Cassie would not have had the guts to touch Miranda like drunk Cassie does: giggling and playing with her hair, throwing her arms around Miranda's neck, trying to get her to dance, resting her head on her shoulder while she waits for more drinks.</p><p>Sober Cassie probably would have noticed the expression on Miranda’s face, the one that has gone from annoyed to uh... thunderous as Cassie drags her from bar to bar, one that finally snaps when they are standing outside of a club that looks <em> incredible,</em> all dark and mysterious, shitty music thumping; Cassie is already moving to the beat—well, the parts of her that Miranda isn’t holding up are, anyway.  </p><p>“No.” </p><p>It’s the first thing Miranda has said to her in…</p><p>… well, now that Cassie tries to focus and think about it, a long time.</p><p>Like a <em> really </em> long time, like it’s very possible that Miranda hasn’t said anything for hours and Cassie has been blabbering and flirting with whoever will buy her drinks, yelling and dancing and laughing and yep, Miranda has been a silent, glaring companion all night, she’s probably scared off more people than Cassie realizes, which means Miranda owes her at least three drinks, which means—<em>hello—</em> they are absolutely going in, but when Cassie tries to move it feels like a fucking statue is holding her in place. </p><p>“Ugh, what is your <em> problem</em>?” Cassie wrestles her arm away from Miranda and immediately regrets it as she wobbles and almost trips on the pavement.</p><p> Miranda watches Cassie try to find her balance, eyebrows raised, then rolls her eyes and wraps an arm around her waist. </p><p>“Right, you’re done.” They are near a taxi stand, Miranda starts maneuvering Cassie and all of her uncooperative limbs towards a waiting cab.</p><p>“I don’t wanna, lemme go, I’m <em> fine</em>.” Cassie whines.</p><p>“Jesus <em> fucking </em>Christ, fine— there you go.” Miranda steps away and takes Cassie's equilibrium with her and suddenly she is on the ground, laughing. </p><p>“Oh noooo, I’m sorry, don’t be mad, I’m good, look.” She clambers inelegantly to her feet, spreading her arms wide in triumph. </p><p>Miranda is not impressed; she is staring at Cassie with her arms crossed.</p><p>It slowly occurs to Cassie that Miranda being mad at her <em> might </em> be worse than not getting another drink </p><p>….or four. </p><p>Plus, there is probably a minibar in the room.</p><p>Cassie attempts a charming smile. “Yeah, okay, fuck that place, let’s go to the hotel, let’s gooooo.” </p><p>Miranda takes a breath and blows it out slowly through pursed lips. Her fists are clenched at her sides and Cassie has a vague, blurry memory of what it sounded like when she destroyed Alex’s computer, the crash echoing through his giant apartment and then she remembers that Miranda has killed...like, a fuck ton of people and if she decides that she wants to kill Cassie she could do that, like, <em> suuuper </em> easily and fuck, Cassie is stumbling again and the cobblestones are <em> thisclose </em> to her face— </p><p>Miranda grabs the back of Cassie’s jacket, yanks her upright and pushes her towards the cab. “Get. In. The. Car.”  </p><p>“Okay, okay, I’m getting in the car, <em> God </em> .” Cassie focuses on her steps and manages to get herself in with minimal damage because Miranda sounds <em>really </em> mad, like, madder than that time she held a gun to the back of Cassie’s head. </p><p>The driver says something to her in Italian that she absolutely cannot understand, she mumbles something incoherent in response. Miranda climbs in and barks the name of the hotel at him and something that must translate to “before I gut you” because he fucking <em> floors </em> it.</p><p>“Hey, Mirm—Mmda— did I give that guy my number? He was hootttt and I fucked up my last Rome fuck buddy cause I kinda asked him for a gun and—” </p><p>“Cassandra.” </p><p><em>Ohhhh. </em>Cassie remembers, with a flash of surprising clarity, Miranda’s hand on her chin, the hotel in Berlin.</p><p><em>You don’t want me to punish you, do you Cassandra? </em>  </p><p>“I need you not to speak to me for ten minutes. Can you manage that.”</p><p>Cassie didn’t know a person could talk with a jaw clenched that tight— Miranda’s looks like it was carved from marble. It’s… pretty. </p><p>Scary. </p><p>But. Pretty. </p><p>Technically, it's not a question, and Cassie <em> isn’t </em> sure she can manage it, but it’s been long enough without a drink that she’s starting to sober up a little, and sobering up means guilt and feeling bad about herself and hearing all the thoughts in her head and look, fine, <em>maybe</em> she owes Miranda for keeping her alive and mostly unbruised tonight, she can try be quiet for ten minutes.</p><p>Cassie bites her lip and leans her head on the window, trying to concentrate on the buildings or the people on the streets but <em> ughhh nope, very very bad idea, </em> now she is dizzy and she tries to lean back against the seat but she can’t keep her head from rolling back and forth and it’s hurting her neck so she turns a little more and…</p><p>So thing is, Miranda is not like, comfortable? But she <em>is</em> steady and solid and that makes Cassie feel a little less dizzy and spinny. She mumbles contentedly and drapes her arm over Miranda’s lap, waiting for her to growl this counts as talking or like, <em>get the fuck off me</em>. </p><p>But she doesn't, she just sighs "Goddammit," and brushes a few stray strands of Cassie’s hair off her face. She sounds very, very tired.</p><p>Cassie wants to apologize, she tries to make her mouth move and sounds come out, but her eyes are closing and <em> whoops</em>, she’s already drifted off.</p><hr/><p>It tastes like Cassie has been chewing sawdust when she wakes up, blinking blearily in the mid-morning light. She moans a little and runs through her checklist. Nope, doesn’t feel like she had sex, none of her bones feel broken, she can see her phone and wallet on the nightstand and — she slowly rolls over, looking at the expanse of empty bed next her—excellent, no dead body. </p><p>Her memories from last night are, as usual, in bits and pieces: Miranda almost breaking the fingers of some guy who kept trying to get Cassie to dance with him, Miranda letting Cassie play with her hair, Miranda gently brushing her hair off her face, Miranda holding her up in the elevator, Miranda putting her in bed.</p><p><em> Shit.</em> Cassie forces herself to sit up and emotional hangover hits her like a truck. She moans again and puts her head in her hands, pushing down the guilt and shame and panic, trying to keep her mind blank— just until she can remember if she has a nip somewhere, maybe in her suitcase? Her eyes light on it, neatly tucked next to the closet, she needs a <em>second,</em> long enough to get to her bag and dig her hand around and— nothing. </p><p>“If you are looking for these,” Miranda is leaning against the door, two nips of vodka dangling loosely from her fingers. “You are going to have to talk to me first.” She doesn’t sound mad, she just sounds like...herself, which makes Cassie feel a tiny bit better.  </p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>She follows Miranda into the sitting area and sinks into a chair, trying to keep her eyes off from the bottles on the table in front of her. </p><p>“I don’t need the lecture, really—I fucked up, I know, I’ve heard it from Ani and Davey already.”</p><p>She can’t help sounding defensive, and she hates the plaintive whine in her voice but fuck, relapsing (Cassie knows what she’s doing, she’s not stupid) <em> sucks</em>, the people who were so proud of her two months ago are disappointed and resigned like they expected her to fail and it’s hard enough taking that from Ani and Davey and she literally <em> cannot </em> handle hearing it from Miranda.</p><p>“Why would I lecture you?” Miranda sounds like it’s the furthest thing from her mind. </p><p>Cassie looks down at her lap, up at Miranda, to the bottles on the table, then back to her lap.</p><p>“Uh...because? I’m drinking?” </p><p>“And?” </p><p>“And...I shouldn’t? Because I’m an alcoholic?” </p><p>Miranda sighs. “You know that’s not how this works. Relapses are....part of the journey—”</p><p>Cassie can tell she is trying to be sincere but her mouth twists when she says <em> part of the journey </em> and she can’t really blame her.</p><p>“—and that’s alright, yeah?” </p><p>“Why are you holding onto those? Cassie asks suspiciously, gesturing with her chin to the nips. </p><p>“I hoped it would increase chances that you would actually hear me when I tell you that I am sorry. I was...frustrated last night.” Miranda says evenly, drumming her fingers on the table. “I have something of an anger problem and I don’t always handle certain situations well. But me being frustrated with you—no matter how <em>challenging</em> you might be— is not helpful. So. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“An anger problem.” Cassie repeats slowly. “Like when you went nuts on Alex’s computer?” </p><p>Miranda’s eyes widen. “How, exactly, do you know about that?” </p><p>“I… I was there? With Max. In the closet.” Cassie flashes a slightly shamefaced grin.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, how did you...? Nevermind. Of course you were.” She mutters, rolling the vodka down the table. “Right, well. I’m sorry. I am not mad at you, alright?”  </p><p>“Okay.” Cassie says quietly. She rolls a bottle under her finger but doesn’t pick it up. </p><p>She wants to drink, she wants to erase last night’s hangover with today’s drunk, she wants to not <em> feel </em> so goddamn much all the time, she wants to be able to function without a booze plexiglass shield between her and the rest of the world, she wants to make Ani and Davey happy, and she really, really doesn't want Miranda to leave.</p><p>“How annoying was I last night?” </p><p>“Compared to what?” Miranda says dryly, but there is a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “On a scale of one to ten, five. Are you always so...handsy?” </p><p>Cassie flushes. “Ha. Sorry about that.” </p><p>Five is okay, five is like, definitively in the middle, five is too-loud-handsy-party girl, five is not screaming-and-fighting-crying girl.</p><p>“Cassandra.”</p><p>Oh,<em> that </em> she remembers, heat skating down her spine, it almost makes her miss Miranda's question.</p><p>“Do I seem like a person who lies?” </p><p>“Um.” <em> Obviously? </em> </p><p>“Right, fair enough.” Miranda pauses, then releases her next words in a rush, as if she’s embarrassed. “For work, aye, I lie a lot and I lie well, it keeps me alive. This is not that. This is…I am not mad at you. I mean it, yeah?” </p><p>“Do you have to go?” </p><p>Oh boy, Cassie does <em> not </em> like the way she asked that question, all hopeful and desperate and teary<em>. </em>She rolls the bottle a little faster, letting the ridges of the cap press into her fingertips.</p><p>“Do you want me to stay?” Miranda’s gaze is unwavering. </p><p>“Can you?”</p><p>The question tumbles out before she can stop it and she forces her eyes away from the bottles, away from Miranda's unwavering gaze and all the way up to the ceiling.</p><p>“I might not want to drink today, but I might not be able to <em> not </em> drink today and either way I don’t think being alone will be good for me, and I’m not on a flight again until tomorrow and I think I need… someone with me. ” </p><p>The words hang between them for a second, and just as Cassie is about to try to take them back, Miranda nods and stands up, phone in hand. </p><p>“I can. I have to step out and make a few calls, I’ll bring back breakfast.” </p><p>Cassie lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding and smiles shakily as she gets to her feet. “Okay, cool, yeah—I’m gonna take a shower and you...you go do your thing.”</p><p>She looks at the bottles on the table, chewing on her lip, then grabs Miranda’s arm as she walks by. </p><p>“Can you...make these go away? I mean. Don’t like, throw them out or anything. I just want to...see.”</p><p>The idea of them being like, <em> gone gone </em> is a little much.  </p><p>Miranda looks pleased. “Well done.” She murmurs softly.</p><p>There is a glimmer of pride in her eyes and it makes Cassie feel warm and flustered. She takes a sharp breath, suddenly very aware of the fistful of jacket she is crumpling in her clammy hand. </p><p>Miranda looks down at Cassie’s hand and something like a smile flutters around the corners of her mouth. Then she pauses for a half a second and… <em> kisses </em> Cassie, right on the mouth.</p><p>It’s gentle and light and sweet and she is gone before Cassie realizes what happened, because her brain feels like it’s moving through mud—Christ, this hangover has <em> teeth —</em>so she stands there, unable to think about...anything, honestly.</p><p> She looks down at the table desperately and remembers that she asked for the vodka to go away.  </p><p>
  <em> Shit.  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. JFK - BKK</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fifth time Miranda appears on one of her flights, Cassie has been sober for 102 days. </p><p>It has been just over three months since Rome and after another night in jail (<em>trespassing, destruction of private property, public indecency</em>), Cassie asks Davey if he knows a place, like a real rehab place, and if he can help her pay for it. </p><p>He says yes, thin, weary hope in his voice that Cassie desperately wants to live up to. When they arrive, Davey hands his credit card to the receptionist, who looks slightly puzzled and says it’s been taken care of. </p><p>How the hell Miranda knew which rehab she would end up in and <em> when </em> she would end up there is like, truly beyond Cassie, but if anyone was going to pull off such a weirdly sweet gesture....well, it's Miranda.</p><p>Davey is confused and kind of freaked out but Cassie manages to come up with something—says her insurance must cover more than she thought (<em>yeah right</em>) and now, 102 days later she is cautiously optimistic about staying sober. </p><p>They haven’t spoken since Rome, but she knew Miranda would be on this flight the second she saw the roster. </p><p>JFK- BKK, almost exactly a year later. </p><p>Imperial hasn’t put her on this flight since then, and Cassie is a little tense because she’s been dreaming about Alex lately— but just dreaming, and it turns out bad dreams are much, much more manageable than hallucinations. And she’s learned how to talk about it, sometimes Ani and Davey, a <em> lot </em> to her therapist.</p><p>Still, when she gets on the plane that morning, she can feel tension locking up her shoulders. Cassie reminds herself she can do this, she is not going to run away, she doesn’t do that anymore. </p><p>It isn’t until she sees Miranda in 2B, ankle resting casually on her knee, paperback in hand (<em>The Hit) </em> that some of the tension in her shoulders evaporates. Cassie just feels better with her around, so she relaxes and concentrates on not blurting out every thought currently running through her head, all of them some variation on <em>hi so you kissed me and we never talked about it and you paid for rehab and what does that mean, what does any of this mean?</em></p><p>And look, Cassie knows that’s how whatever <em> this </em> is works, but Miranda did like, actually kiss her. With her mouth. It’s not, you know, <em> insane </em> to think she might have followed up. </p><p>They <em>could</em> have talked about it when Miranda came back that morning, but by then, Cassie had found the emergency nips she had squirreled away in her other bag, and the majority of that day is, um, hazy?</p><p>But come on— it would take a fucking <em> lobotomy </em> for Cassie to forget about that kiss. </p><p>Her therapist knows something is up, because Cassie is surprisingly evasive about her mysterious friend who helped her out of a “tough spot” with a guy who was “a little intense” and Cassie tends more toward “constant rambling” when she’s in session. But she’s like… ninety six percent sure her therapist would say it’s too soon for her to start dating. How would she even begin to explain Miranda to like, anyone, much less her very sweet therapist who has a kind of kooky ceramics teacher thing going on.</p><p>Miranda, who didn’t get mad at her when she relapsed, who came to dinner with her friends and made them laugh, who lectured her about books and helped her through a panic attack. Miranda, who fully undid Cassie with one gentle kiss. Miranda, who is only technically not an assassin. </p><p>How the hell do you explain that? </p><hr/><p>Ani has been (<em>very </em> patiently) listening to Cassie try to figure out what to do for months. Last week, they met for lunch, and when Cassie casually (awkwardly, glaringly obviously) mentioned she was scheduled on the Bangkok flight, Ani finally had enough.</p><p>“Miranda’s coming?” </p><p>Cassie took a bite of her salad and shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe? I don’t know. Probably?” </p><p>Ani looked at her in disbelief. “Probably? This is your first time back to Bangkok since—” she gestured with her fork in midair  “—all of that shit, and you think she won’t be there?” </p><p>“I don’t <em> know</em>, Ani! She’s not like, predictable, she just shows up in first class, like, smirking at me—” </p><p>“—<em> please </em>don’t pretend it doesn’t turn you on.” </p><p>Cassie ignored her. “—and then I get to the hotel and she’s left me a key and then we…I don’t know, get dinner. Hang out. Watch TV.” </p><p>Ani laughed. “Seriously? You <em> hang out </em> and watch TV? What is this, seventh grade? You gotta make a fucking <em> move </em> Cass.” </p><p>“What, I was supposed to like, make out after a panic attack?” Cassie asked. “It’s not like we’ve got, you know, romantic situations over here. Then I relapsed, so the next time I saw her—” </p><p>“— she took care of you and apologized for getting frustrated and rearranged her incredibly demanding murdering schedule to keep taking care of you, I know.” Ani said. </p><p>“Well, yes. And! I have no idea how she feels about me, like at all.” </p><p>“Okay, Cass? <em> That </em> is bullshit and you know it,” Ani said, leveling her fork at Cassie. “One: She left you a note which included the phrase ‘see you soon.’ I think we can reasonably conclude that does, at the very least, suggest an interest in seeing you again.” </p><p>“Oh god, please don’t do the lawyer thing,” Cassie groaned.  </p><p>Ani pressed on. “Two: She showed up in your room, with no agenda aside from hanging out. Three: She came to dinner with us, she didn’t like, kill anyone, <em> and </em> she kept her arm around you the whole time. Four: She kept drunk Cassie alive and didn’t abandon you —not an easy task, trust me. And five: <em> She fucking kissed you on the mouth; </em> stop being a loser and <em> do </em> something about it.” </p><hr/><p>Which is how Cassie has ended up at dinner with Miranda, in Bangkok, nervously gulping at her seltzer like a lunatic, trying to figure out what is the least pathetic way of saying “Oh wow, that’s so interesting, um, also, do you remember that time you kissed me?” </p><p>Fuck, this would be so, so much easier if she was drinking. </p><p>Because this? This is a bad idea. This is a <em> monumentally </em>stupid, bad, terrible idea. This is a woman who carries a knife on her, this is a woman who literally held a gun to Cassie’s head, this is a woman who has killed an... unsettling amount of people, this is not a woman Cassie can just, like, have feelings for? </p><p>What does she even know about Miranda, anyway? She’s particular about books and she hates waffles? (Though—that is crazy, Miranda hates waffles in a way Cassie didn’t think was possible, because waffles are delicious and inoffensive, what kind of person hates <em>waffles</em>?) Hello, Cassie <em>cannot</em> have a crush on a... a waffle hating murderer she sees every few months. </p><p>This is the first time in a a very, very long time that anything her life has even come <em> close </em> making sense; she is sober and in therapy and she is going to risk fucking all of that up because, what, Miranda smells nice and has very blue eyes and said she was a good girl? No. That’s insane. </p><p>“Am I boring you?” Miranda is looking at her with one eyebrow pointedly arched. </p><p>Usually, when Miranda deigns to talk to her about work, Cassie asks anywhere from three to ten million questions, trying to figure out what she is alluding to and where she’s going next and making like, truly awful puns until Miranda (jokingly….?) threatens to kill her. </p><p>“Whoops, sorry, what’s up?” Cassie asks guiltily. </p><p>“I really don’t know, Cassandra. Would you care to enlighten me?” </p><p>See it’s <em> that</em>, that disappointed professor thing Miranda does, like Cassie is in trouble, like she is going to ask her to stay after class, like she is going to be punished. It makes her feel all...lightheaded and hot. </p><p>
  <em> Bad, bad idea.  </em>
</p><p>She flashes her most charming smile, the one that got her drinks when her card was declined and keys to apartments and once, a free tray of Jello shots after closing. “I’m fine. It’s just a little… weird being back here, you know?” </p><p>Cassie feels bad using Alex to get out of this, but she did let him live in her head for weeks, <em> and </em>figured out who killed him— she’s earned it. </p><p>Miranda nods once, like she doesn’t quite believe her. “Right. Do you want to get out of here?”</p><p>She doesn’t wait for Cassie’s response, she is already waving down the waiter and handing him a credit card that may or may not actually belong to her. </p><p>It’s too late to protest, and what would she even say? Cassie sighs and follows Miranda out of the restaurant, across the street to the hotel, where they’ll watch TV and Miranda will read her book and Cassie will wake up alone, <em> again</em>. </p><p>That is another thing that has been bothering her—she has never been able to figure out when Miranda sleeps when they do… whatever this is, and honestly, Cassie isn’t sure Miranda <em> ever </em>sleeps, she’s always dressed, always ready to go, sleeping seems very incongruous with like, who Miranda is as a person, and she is looking at Cassie with faint resignation, like she know Cassie is seconds away from blurting out whatever it is she is thinking and, well, Cassie does. </p><p>“Do you like, sleep, ever?”</p><p>“Do I <em> sleep</em>?” Miranda looks entirely exasperated by Cassie’s incredibly random question, which, you know, <em>fair enough</em>, and it looks like she is going to say something or grab Cassie and shake her, but she looks around the hotel lobby and starts walking faster until they hit the elevator. As the doors slide closed, Miranda whips around, cornering Cassie against the wall. </p><p>“Right, you are acting like a crazy person today —not your usual, understandable wee bit of crazy— a whole new kind of crazy, and I don’t particularly fancy having to adjust to a new kind of crazy right now, so either tell me what is going on or start acting like yourself.” She is clenching her fists, like she is trying to keep herself from reaching out and literally strangling Cassie. </p><p><em> Stop being a loser and do something about it</em>.</p><p>Cassie makes a tiny sound in the back of her throat, but no like, actual words come out and she doesn’t actually know how to put this into words, that is the whole fucking problem, and then suddenly she jolts forward and kisses Miranda, hard.</p><p>This is not like Rome, light and sweet and unexpectedly gentle. </p><p>No, this is <em> please pin her against the wall </em> kissing, this is <em> her bottom lip caught between Miranda’s teeth </em> kissing<em>, </em> this is <em> Miranda tracing her thumb along her throat, humming in approval when Cassie whimpers </em> kissing. </p><p>Suddenly elevator doors are opening, and then Miranda has Cassie’s wrist in her hand, dragging her down the corridor, throwing her into the suite and slamming the door. </p><p>“Sit.” </p><p>Cassie obeys the barked order without a second thought and sits down hard on the couch behind her, noticing that she is like, panting in a way that feels embarrassing; she cannot believe she just <em> kissed Miranda in an elevator</em>, but she also doesn’t know why they are not doing that anymore, and it seems like a question that deserves an answer. “Miranda, I—”</p><p>“Shut up.”  </p><p>Miranda is pacing across the floor like a furious tornado. She pauses to take a breath, and Cassie tries again. </p><p>“I’m sorry—” </p><p>“S<em>top. Talking.” </em>Miranda presses two fingers to her temples. “Alright. I need you to listen to me and I need you not to do that thing where you wander off halfway through what I am saying—Christ, you’re doing it right now, aren’t you?” </p><p>Yes, fine, she was—but just for a second, because there is a distracting smear of lipstick on Miranda’s mouth, and it is like, <em> disturbingly </em> hot to see her so close to losing control, and Cassie has a sudden vision of Miranda on top of her, all coiled rage and…</p><p>Anyway. Just for a second. </p><p>She looks at Miranda, eyes wide and hopefully beseeching enough to stand for an apology, because she is not sure she is allowed to talk yet and she doesn’t want to try her luck. </p><p>“Right.” Miranda blows out a long breath and sits down next to Cassie on the couch. Then she slides a few inches away, like she doesn’t trust herself. “You have gone from a… charming nuisance that I should have dealt with immediately to something… else.”</p><p>Cassie gets that when Miranda says “dealt with immediately” she means “I should have killed you.” </p><p>Honestly, it says a lot about the year she’s had that she doesn’t really give it more than a passing thought. </p><p>“A <em> charming </em>nuisance?” She says, because she can’t help herself, then remembers she is not allowed to talk yet. “Oops.” </p><p>“That is what I said, isn’t it? How many other people do you imagine I have offered to flee the country with?” </p><p>“Well… okay, but that was about the money, right? That’s what you said— in the church, you said you were a bad actor and you just wanted the money. That’s what you said.” </p><p>“I lied.” Miranda says evenly. “I lied because you were—<em> are </em> —a problem. I was supposed to go to London after you kicked your fucking <em> shoe </em>at me and managed to get away clean. But I…don’t like loose ends. And—well. I did not go back. My...former boss was not pleased.”  </p><p>Cassie blinks. “Former boss?” </p><p>“He’s dead.”</p><p>“Because he was going to kill me?” </p><p>“<em>Because </em> the pathetic shit he hired to kill <em>me</em> ruined my fucking upholstery.” Miranda mutters furiously, muscles in her jaw jumping. “And yes, Victor would not have stopped coming after you. He would have just sent someone else. This was cleaner.”</p><p>“No loose ends.” Cassie shifts a little on the couch and kicks her shoes off. “Except for me.” </p><p>Is that what this is? She is just a situation Miranda needs to like, monitor? </p><p>Miranda makes a frustrated sound. “You are not a loose end. You…. <em> Christ</em>, you got involved in some very fucked up shit by total happenstance, there is no logical reason you should still be alive, and there is <em> certainly </em> no reason you should be in my life— but you are not a <em> loose end, </em>you….” </p><p>Something about the way she trails off— like she’s embarrassed, like she doesn’t know what to say—makes Cassie understand. “You like me.” </p><p>Miranda crosses her arms and mutters something sweary and Scottish under her breath.    </p><p>“You <em> like </em> me, and that is freaking you out because you are probably not very comfortable with feelings that aren’t all… ragey and kill-y.”</p><p> Sure, fine, she is conveniently choosing not to mention the fact that <em> she </em>has been unable to think about anything besides Miranda for months, but it is not often that Cassie gets to have the upper hand here, she is enjoying it, okay? “Why are you telling me all this now?”</p><p>Miranda turns to look at Cassie, and a wicked little smile plays across her face. “I don’t like lying to people I want to fuck.”</p><p><em>Goodbye upper hand</em>.  </p><p>It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her heart is like, <em> pounding </em> and all she can think about is Miranda tracing her thumb over her neck, and the memory of it is enough to make goosebumps break out all over her skin, and Cassie is <em> nervous </em> and so does what she does best when she is nervous: she talks. </p><p>“You know, I was kind of losing my mind because I hadn’t heard from you since Rome and Ani was all ‘Cass, grow up and do something about it’ and so I, you know, <em> kissed </em> you and then you say all this <em> stuff </em> about how you were supposed to forget about me and leave me to die but you didn’t and you paid for rehab—which, how did you even figure <em> that </em> out?— and Ani was right, you do have this mean mommy domme thing going on and I have no idea why I am so into it because I haven’t even <em>begun</em> to figure out how I am supposed to talk about you to my therapist and—”</p><p>“—<em> Mean mommy domme</em>?” Miranda interrupts, her eyebrows raised. </p><p>Cassie waves a hand impatiently, flustered. “You know what I mean, you’re literally doing it right now."</p><p>“Am I?” Miranda settles back into the couch smirks. </p><p>“You are, you’re all distant and like, <em>unbothered </em>and then you say my full name like I’m in trouble and—” </p><p>“Cassandra.” </p><p>Right. She should have seen that coming, but she shivers a little anyway. “Yeah?” </p><p>“Do you want me to fuck you?”</p><p><em> Jesus Christ. </em>Cassie feels her face heat up, a flush spreading down her chest and neck. She nods, not trusting that she won’t start babbling again the second she opens her mouth. She looks up at Miranda, and her breath catches in her chest when she sees the predatory look in her eyes. </p><p>“Come here."</p><p>Cassie moves embarrassingly quickly for someone who has been told on more than one occasion that she has “issues with authority,” sliding down the couch cushion until she is practically sitting on her lap. </p><p>Miranda runs her thumb over Cassie’s bottom lip, still a little red and swollen from their elevator tryst, her eyes flash triumphantly when Cassie makes a sound that is mortifyingly close to a mewl.  </p><p>“Hmm, what to do with you?” she murmurs, more to herself than Cassie, like she has <em>multiple plans</em> to choose from, like she has been thinking about this for a very long time.  </p><p>“I—” It is impossible to get words out of her mouth with Miranda focused on her like that, bright blue eyes boring into hers, wiping out every thought in her head. Cassie closes her eyes, taking a second to get her fucking head on straight, because this is all very, very intense and very, <em> very </em> hot and she needs <em> one second </em> to pull herself together. </p><p>Miranda’s hand is still cradling her face, watching as Cassie takes a deep breath. </p><p>“You good? I’ll go easy on you.” Her voice is gentle and surprisingly patient; it makes the knot of nerves in Cassie's stomach unravel. </p><p>“Not like… too easy,” Cassie mumbles. Fuck, she cannot <em>believe</em> she just said that, she tries not to think about how red her face must be. </p><p>“You look lovely blushing for me,” Miranda purrs, and the sound that comes out of Cassie’s mouth in response is half whimper, half gasp—all need. </p><p>Cassie knows Miranda is like, <em> kill a man in a dark alley no problem </em> strong, but she was not aware that she is <em> pick Cassie up and settle her over her lap like it’s nothing </em> strong. She sinks down onto Miranda’s muscular thighs (oh sure, she made fun of Cassie for doing spin, but she is clearly doing <em> something </em> in her spare time, hello) and swallows a moan when Miranda slides her hand underneath her dress. </p><p>“Oh no, that won’t do,” Miranda hums in her ear, fingertips resting lightly on the soft skin of Cassie’s inner thigh. “I want to hear you.”</p><p>The words alone are enough to make Cassie whimper, and when they’re combined with Miranda chuckling against her neck and the heel of her palm pressing against Cassie’s embarrassingly wet underwear… well, the sound she makes isn’t dignified, but it’s certainly <em> very </em> audible. </p><p>“Like that, do you?” Miranda husks, arousal thickening her accent. <em> Like tha do yeh? </em></p><p>Cassie tries to respond, but Miranda shoves aside the strip of fabric, running two fingers through her soaked folds, groaning appreciatively and <em> holy fucking shit this is going to kill her.  </em></p><p>“I asked you a question, Cassandra." Her fingers stop moving centimeters from where Cassie like, <em> needs </em>them to be; she whines desperately enough that it makes Miranda laugh, low and throaty.</p><p>Cassie’s skin feels like it’s on fire and she is struggling to remember that she has the ability to speak at all, but somehow she manages to stammer out a response. </p><p>“I—yes. Fuck, yes.” </p><p>Miranda rewards her with a kiss, biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, dancing her tongue over the swelling; the sensation rolls through Cassie like tiny shocks. </p><p>She frantically tries to rock herself against Miranda’s knuckles, but she holds Cassie down with her other hand, forcing her to stillness.  </p><p>“Ah, ah ah— if you want something, you have to ask.” </p><p><em> Oh</em>. </p><p>Before, sex was something to do when all the beer and shots stopped working—another way to quiet her endless thoughts, to escape herself, escape reality.</p><p>This is not that.</p><p>This is not sex to distance herself from reality, this sex that like, fucking <em>anchors</em> her to it. </p><p>This is Miranda <em> going easy on her</em>, this is knowing that Miranda will not fuck her unless Cassie begs her to. This is enjoying the swooping feeling of humiliation in her gut as she kisses smooth skin on Miranda’s neck and whimpers: “Fuck me. Please.” </p><p>“<em>Very </em> good,” Miranda hums as she slides two fingers inside her, hard. She drops the hand that was holding Cassie in place and brings it up to her breast, palming it roughly, running her thumb over Cassie’s nipple. </p><p>“Oh fuck I—<em> ” </em> Heat coils deep and low inside her, building steadily as she thrusts herself harder onto Miranda’s fingers, panting desperately, the sound is <em> obscene</em>.</p><p>“Can you hear how wet you are for me?” Miranda asks, tangling her hand in Cassie’s hair, pulling it gently, watching carefully for her reaction.</p><p>Cassie doesn’t even recognize the sound she makes in response, feeling the strength in Miranda's arm as she wraps more of her hair around her fist, pulling harder, forcing Cassie's head back, baring her throat— but it is certainly not, like, the answer Miranda is waiting for.  </p><p>“Cassandra.” </p><p>The warning in her voice makes Cassie shudder, it makes her want to know what would happen if she made Miranda like, actually mad, but she is barreling towards what promises to be like, a truly incredible orgasm, so that will have to wait.</p><p>“Yes, yes—<em> fuck</em>, I—need more, please.” </p><p>“Mhm, I quite like you begging.” Miranda says approvingly, eyes glinting wickedly in the low light. </p><p>“—I—<em> please</em>?” </p><p>Cassie’s focus has narrowed to exactly one thing—keeping Miranda happy, and if that means she has to recite flight safety rules in her head so she doesn’t come, then fine, that’s what she’ll do. </p><p>Miranda slowly licks the pulse point on her throat, and despite the fact that it <em>immediately</em> makes Cassie want to know what else she can do with her mouth, she manages to keep herself from flooding Miranda's hand.</p><p>“What a good girl you are,” Miranda hums contentedly. She does <em>not</em> say Cassie can come; but she does add another finger, twisting all three of them expertly, teeth flashing in a feral smile.</p><p>It is almost too much, but it feels so good Cassie can’t help but rock faster, one hand holding on to the couch, the other buried in Miranda’s hair, who moans a little when Cassie’s fingers tighten against her scalp. </p><p>“So desperate for me to let you come, aren’t you Cassandra?”</p><p><br/>Cassie whines as tremors run up and down her thighs, sweat beading on her collarbone. This is impossible, this is torture— this is incredible. </p><p>“Please, I <em>can’t—fuck—</em>Miranda, please.”<br/><br/></p><p>”Please what?” Miranda purrs, curling her fingers again. </p><p>“Oh god, fuck that is so good—please can I come?”</p><p>The desperation in her voice seems to satisfy Miranda, who croons “Alright, love, come for me,” pressing her palm hard against Cassie’s clit.  </p><p>The orgasm that crashes through her is like nothing she has ever felt, it leaves her breathless and boneless and maybe blind?</p><p>Cassie collapses into Miranda’s neck, waiting for her heart rate to come back down normal, breathing in her rainy, woodsy smell, whimpering a little as Miranda eases her fingers out of her warmth. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” Miranda says softly, running her hand down Cassie’s hair. “You’re okay.” </p><p>Cassie takes a deep breath, feeling slightly stunned. That was… not like any sex she had ever had before, that was incredibly good, like, <em> mind-blowingly </em> good, like <em> what-the-fuck-was-the-point-of-sex-before-now </em>good. Her face is still buried in Miranda’s neck, she leans back a little and rests their foreheads together.</p><p>“Fuck.” Cassie mumbles. “That was going easy on me?”</p><p>Miranda laughs, trailing her fingers up and down Cassie’s leg. “You said not <em> too </em> easy.” </p><p>Cassie kisses her again, just because she can, then winces as her calf starts to cramp. </p><p>“Alright?” Miranda asks, eyes narrowing with concern.</p><p>“Just a cramp—fuck, that <em> hurts</em>.”</p><p>Miranda wraps her hands around Cassie’s waist and moves her like it’s nothing, (seriously, what kind of core strength <em> is </em> that?) letting Cassie rest her head on her lap and stretch her legs down the length of the couch. </p><p>“You don’t drink enough water,” Miranda says as Cassie flexes her leg, sighing in relief as the cramp subsides. </p><p>Cassie looks up at her, rolling her eyes. “I drink water, I drink water all the time, it’s like, the <em> only </em> thing I drink.” </p><p>“Bananas then,” Miranda says, tracing a fingertip over Cassie’s collarbones. “Potassium is very important.” </p><p>Cassie mumbles something that sounds a lot like <em> mean mommy domme </em>under her breath, shivering as Miranda’s fingertip dips into the swell of her cleavage. </p><p>How is it possible she is turned on again already? Which reminds her…. </p><p>“You didn’t…” She gestures vaguely, the words trip on her tongue— she feels silly, like a teenager. “You know.” </p><p>Miranda laughs, a quick, delighted bark. “It’s early yet.” </p><p>It is, it is early nightfall dark, casting slowly lengthening shadows in the room around them. Cassie takes in the implication of Miranda's words, then sits up, smiling.“Does this mean I get to find out when you sleep?”</p><p>This laugh is different—this laugh is low and dangerous and it makes Cassie's heart beat faster. Miranda fists her dress in her hand, tugs her closer. “I don't plan on doing much sleeping,” she murmurs, brushing her lips along Cassie’s jaw. “Do you?” </p><p>Cassie grins, tangling her fingers in Miranda's absurdly thick hair.</p><p>She really, <em> really </em> does not. <br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>God I love this tiny disaster ship, thanks so much for reading and all your lovely comments!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really, really, intended to write five smutty chapters and then wrote my way into a surprisingly fluffy romance with some smut at the end. Some might call this a win/win?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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